


Better Off Not Knowing

by Semebay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bathtubs, Crack, Drinking, Innuendo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semebay/pseuds/Semebay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night of heavy drinking and an angel's quick decision to help someone in need in the US, England and America discover some secrets about each other that are better left forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Off Not Knowing

The day had started anything but normal. It was likely because England had never actually gone to sleep before the new day began.

 

Or because England wasn't actual _there_ to greet the new day.

 

When Thursday changed to Friday, England was absent from the world of the living. He wasn't asleep, nor was he unconscious. At least, that was what a certain angel insisted, through the drunken ramblings and slurred words caused by the alcohol that had torn through his system and sent his blood-alcohol level skyrocketing. 

 

Britannia Angel told the wall quite clearly that he was  _not_ England, and that he was a bringer of good, and a granter of wishes. And when the wall questioned him (rather rudely, if the angel had any say in the matter), the angel simply slapped it. Well, actually, the reality of the situation was that the angel had taken his wand to it. A mere slap would  _not_ have been able to blast a hole in the wall the size of a small sedan. A curse and a wave of the star-tipped wand, however, had enough damage to do that, as well as deposit the summoned car on the kitchen table (the table that had been giving the angel funny looks).

 

Content that the wall would no longer be insulting him and questioning his motives, the angel let himself fall asleep on the floor in the living room, where he was free to drool among the many (empty) cans and bottles that lay scattered about.

 

The floor was very comfortable. Far more comfortable than the bed upstairs, and far easier to get to.

 

* * *

 

For better or worse, the angel did not get his recommended eight hours of sleep. He also did not get the vodka that the chair had promised. When he woke, stiff and slightly grumpy, he had to wonder why the door was looking at him so invitingly.

 

Then he realized _why_ he had woken. 

 

Forgetting the ache in his back, the angel sprang to his feet and searched around on the floor for his wand. After tripping a few times, he found both his wand and a half full bottle of whiskey. Thanking the chair for the whiskey (even though he had asked for a vodka), he found his halo under the couch, popped it up over his head, and then fluffed his wings before ignoring the door's beckoning and flying out through a (closed) window.

 

If he heard the crashing of glass, he didn't acknowledge it. The window was asking for it, anyway.

 

* * *

 

America had certain rules about bath time. For one, he never took his bath when company was over. When company was over, they always tried to look in on him during bath time, and that was really fucking creepy.

 

The second rule was that no bath time was to ever take place before nine at night or after two in the morning. Outside of those hours, people were more likely to call or visit, and America simply wasn't up to the challenge of dealing with both bath time and annoying visitors. 

 

The third, and most important, rule of bath time was that the door remained locked. Nobody saw bath time. Nobody spoke of bath time. And nobody  _**ever** _ walked in on bath time.

 

Of course, bath time wasn't actually known by the other countries. As a result, the three rules were also not known by other countries. That would probably explain why England had blasted his way in through the door, dressed in some weird toga and a halo, and stared at the remains of the door for a full five minutes before he finally looked up at America.

 

Had America been fully aware of what was going on (or less shocked), he probably would have been able to hide the items in his hands. However, the full five minutes that England used to stare at the smashed door on the floor wasn't nearly enough time for him to wrap his mind around the fact that a) his door had been blown off its hinges by b) a flying toga-clad England, and that c) his bath time had been discovered and infiltrated. 

 

“You!” England shouted, and he pointed his want at America. There were tiny sparks shooting out of it (kinda like a broken wire or something), and America wondered if he should be near water while England was waving around an electric object that was obviously malfunctioning. “You need me!”

 

America carefully moved his jaw from side to side while he tried to figure out what England was talking about. He decided that thinking about it was too hard and would probably be rather painful, so he retaliated with a well thought out, “The fuck, England? Are you drunk?”

 

England blinked at America, and America noticed that he swayed slightly. “M'not drunk,” England said, his words slurred. “M'not England. 'n what's with the duck?”

 

America looked down at his hands, and finally realized that he hadn't lowered them. He started to panic, but then considered the situation. England was in his bathroom, intruding on bath time, completely wasted. So wasted that he didn't even know who he was, or that he was intoxicated.

 

America could get out of this.

 

“What duck?” America asked, and he dropped the items in his hands. With a small splash they fell in the water, and were soon hidden by the bubbles that he had filled the bath with. 

 

However, America hadn't considered that England  _ really _ wanted to know what that duck was. England, much like a cat after a mouse or a dog after a chew toy, ran across the floor to the bath and plunged his hands into the water. America shrieked and barely heard England's “that wasn't a duck,” before the hands were stirring up the water in search of what America had dropped. His hands grabbed America's cock quite a few times during the search, surprising and scaring the shit out of him, but America knew what had to be done despite his endangered virtue.

 

America's hands joined in the hunt for the things he had dropped, and he wasn't willing to let England get them before he could hide them.

 

America, mind not clouded by alcohol, found them first, and quickly moved his hands so that he could shove them behind his back. England caught the motion and gave America a hard stare, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

 

“What'd you do?”

 

“England, get out of my bathroom.” America really wished that his voice would rise to something more intimidating than a squeak. 

 

“I'm Britannia Angel!” England suddenly roared. America swallowed, and then England followed up on his suspicions by lunging into the bath.

 

America almost died right there.

 

“England, get out!”

 

“I'm Britannia Angel!”

 

“You're _England!_ Big fucking eyebrows, messy- _get your hands out of there!_ ”

 

“I'm Britannia Angel!”

 

“ _Cut that out!_ ”

 

“No!”

 

It was a life or death struggle in America's eyes. England was rather insistent on finding out exactly what he was hiding behind his back (or in his ass, as those groping fingers seemed to imply), and water was splashing everywhere. America mourned the fact that his new bathroom tile was being thoroughly drowned by England's flailing, and that he was being presented a view of everything that England's toga was supposed to hide. Apparently England (or Britannia Angel, if he was so passionate about the nickname) had never heard about white fabric not mixing with water.

 

Okay, so maybe America didn't mourn that last part. To be completely honest, it was a pretty nice view. Very shapely and firm, and- _why was England grabbing his cock again?!_

 

“A-ha!” England shouted, and he proceeded to pull up. However, while America was more than happy for England to play with him (though different circumstances and locations would have been far better), England's enthusiasm was slightly more than America really wanted to deal with (and it was also kind of abusive on his poor, poor body). 

 

“England!” America shouted, and the man on top of him stopped.

 

“I'm Britannia Angel,” he said slowly, as though he were speaking to a child, “and this is _not_ a duck.”

 

England let go of America's cock and reached back into the water to search. America had had just about enough. America had prepared himself to toss England out of the bath, consequences be damned, when something slipped out from behind him and England's lips turned upward into a triumphant smile.

 

America's eyes grew wide when he realized that one of the items he had tried so hard to protect had disappeared. England's hand was slowly rising out of the water, and America could only imagine the laughter and pointed fingers when he finally saw it.

 

Brain short-circuiting, America did the only thing he could think of: he leaned forward and planted his lips on England's. 

 

England was, at first, unwilling to let go of the item in his hand. America, annoyed with the fact that his kissing ability couldn't distract a  _drunk_ England, slid himself back in the bath so that he was leaning against the ceramic side. He pulled one hand up to hold the back of England's neck while he kissed him (he really didn't want England to look down at what he held in his hand), and then he used his other hand to keep England's hand (and the mystery object) under the water.

 

England was still persistent despite America's attempts to keep him distracted, so America deepened the kiss even while England tried to tug his hand up and out of the water. England's struggle to look away from America and down at the water continued, but grew less determined while America shifted their position. England's grip loosened, and the thing in his hand fell into the bath, knocking against the bottom and sliding towards the drain when America wrapped his arms around England's chest and lifted him out of the tub.

 

In a perfect world, England's legs would have been wrapped around America's waist while they made their way into the bedroom, and those legs would have remained wrapped around him while America peeled the toga off and tossed it aside.

 

In the real world, England just kind of hung off America. America had to stumble his way out of the bathtub, and then he had to drag England to the door that led to the bedroom without slipping on the water, or the legs that England seemed unwilling (or incapable) of actually pulling up. England was, at least, still pretty focused on America's mouth, so even though he was kind of blocking America's view, at least he wasn't asking any more questions.

 

In an effort that seemed almost wasted, America finally managed to get England up on the bed without breaking any limbs or furniture, which he decided was a victory. When one of England's hands drifted down America's side and moved around to brush his thigh, America silently cheered at another victory. England was distracted,  _not_ trying to find what was in his bathtub, and was looking really fucking horny from this angle (even if he was drunk, which wasn't awesome, but... They'd fucked a few times, so it was okay or something, right? Right).

 

England's other hand had been busy making its way up America's arm to his neck, and he held onto America as though letting go would mean death (in England's addled state, it was possible he really believed it).

 

“England, bit tight,” America muttered when he pulled his head back. His words were low, and he took a breath when England's fingers touched his cock, and brushed across it lightly. England's other hand pulled America back to him, and America opened his mouth slightly to kiss him. America balanced himself carefully, setting one hand beside England's head while he used the other to reach back for one of England's legs. He pulled it up and pushed England farther up the bed, receiving a moan and a lick on the nose.

 

America, pleased with the response, moved his hand from England's leg to the wet toga. It took a bit of effort to peel it from England's skin, but finally he pushed it over the top of England's head and off the bed.

 

England was making the most delicious little noises. His head was pushed back against the pillow, one hand at the nape of America's neck and the other pressed on the pillow next to his head. He was open and waiting, pale skin looking almost white against the dark comforter, hair fanning out while it quickly dried and forming a sort of halo around him, almost like the one that had been there before England had dived into the bath and lost it somewhere.

 

There were scars, yes, but those just added to the allure and temptation, and America imagined them standing out on England's skin, white against the skin that darkened when England was fucking, being fucked, being filled, and-

 

America stopped when England made another noise. He was ready (so ready), but one look at England told him something he hadn't quite been willing to believe.

 

England sure as hell wasn't going to be fucked.

 

England had fallen asleep.

 

America stared in disbelief. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around what had happened, and how  _quickly_ it had all happened. England showed up, dove into his bathtub, practically seduced him, got into his bed with him, and then  _fell asleep?!_

 

“Fuck!” America cursed. He held himself over England and continued to stare. There was no way England was getting up. No way in hell. 

 

America groaned and pulled away, but found that the hand affixed firmly to the nape of his neck wasn't going to let him do that. In fact, every time America tried to back away, that hand tightened unless America leaned closer. Finding no way out of it short breaking England's hand, America collapsed on the bed beside England, grumbling into the comforter and finally realizing how uncomfortable it was having England's fingers digging into his neck when he tried to sleep.

 

“ _Fuck.”_

 

* * *

 

One thing that England remembered was entering a pub in London some time around nine. What he did _not_ remember was the return trip home. And he certainly didn't recall what could have happened so that he ended up in America's bed, across the ocean, sans clothing.

 

England slowly sat up and scowled, removing his hand from America's neck (he didn't know when that had happened, either) and using it to nurse his aching head. He looked over at the clock on America's stand (eight o'clock), and attempted to remember what had happened in the sixteen hours that he couldn't recall.

 

That didn't last long. The aching in his head harshly reprimanded him for even _considering_ thinking at such an hour, and he decided to go look for some ibuprofen in America's bathroom (and possibly his discarded clothing).

 

England grimaced while he climbed out of bed, some of the sheets damp with _something_ , and then he staggered his way into the bathroom.

 

The first thing England did in the bathroom was almost slide across the wet floor. He cursed, then cursed again when he realized how much pain words could dish out. Fearing he would throw up, he made his way over to the toilet to prepare for the worst case scenario. On the way, he paused to look at something odd sitting in the bottom of the bathtub. He narrowed his eyes and slowly reached in to pull out it out, then noticed another object plugging the drain. The final two inches of water drained, and England found himself in possession of a small rubber duck, and a slightly larger “USS AWESOME” plastic battleship. The presence of two such objects mystified him, and in the other room, America was slowly waking and coming to the realization that England was _not_ in the bedroom.

 

“The fuck?” England mumbled, trying to ignore the pounding in his head.

 

Suddenly there was a loud crash, and then the sound of running as America raced to the bathroom door.

 

“England! No!” America shouted, and he grabbed the door frame to stop himself from sliding into the bathroom and slamming into the sink or something. His eyes were wide when he stared at England, and the two bath toys in his hands.

 

The vision didn't last for long. England, head pounding and ears ringing, pulled his arm back and whipped it forward with a curt, “Shut the fuck up!” The toy boat smashed into America's nose, and sent him reeling back into the bedroom with a cry of pain.

 

England finally finished his journey to the toilet, and he knelt down to empty his stomach, ignoring the cries of pain in the neighboring room and wishing he could just pass out there and not remember that any of what he had seen had _ever_ happened.


End file.
